Sick
by PavartiJanus
Summary: Tour has wound down, and the Pentatonix tenor has fallen ill. Scott finds it his duty to take care of him as he recovers, but will his true feelings for his best friend come out? Scomiche, Superfruit, Scott Hoying, Mitch Grassi, Sick Fic, Pentatonix.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello Lovelies! Look what I found on my old computer! Upon re-discovering this cutesy one-shot, I decided it needed to see the light of day, so I posted it. Let me know how you like it!_

 _I don't own Pentatonix, Superfruit, or anything of the kind. I just love them!_

 _xxx_

The pillow in his arms felt weird. Not like his own pillow. And it smelled like a familiar body. Scott rolled over with a sigh, his eyes still closed as he drifted out of sleep.

He opened his eyes and took a moment to orient himself. Oh. This was Mitch's room. That's right. They'd stayed up talking late into the night, and must have fallen asleep together. He closed his eyes again, letting himself sink back into his comfortable, lazy morning doze, now that the mystery was dispelled. This was such a peaceful, wonderful place to be, and he could reach out with his senses and find the place where the bed dipped with pressure and the warmth of another body lay beside him. There was the soft sound of gentle breathing. It was so comforting to know he was there.

Scott turned and opened his eyes, and took in Mitch's sleeping form. He was half on his side, with his knees pulled up, his arms held close to his body, the fingers barely peeking, curved around the cuffs of an overlarge hoodie. His face was serene, relaxed, and he slept with almost childlike innocence, that breathing making the faintest of sighs as he exhaled. Like a gentle angel. Light from the window was hitting the bed, making his skin glow, smoothing it like it was porcelain. Something in the way he was lying, almost cocooned in the covers and the black hoodie, a perfect picture of beauty and peace, Scott wanted to hold him in his arms. Kiss his forehead. Feel his sleeping body against his. He wanted to be there for him not only in the way a best friend could, but in a way a lover could. He wanted to be those secure, safe arms that held him at night, the voice that hummed him to sleep, the lips that touched his in a goodnight kiss.

Scott noticed something. Mitch was sweating, a thin gloss of the stuff coating his nose. Probably because he fell asleep with a hoodie on, Scott figured. He'd be hot too. It was a warm morning.

Then, with a sigh and an adjustment in his position, Mitch began to awaken. He pulled the covers over his shoulder and gripped a fistful close to his chin, "It's cold." He murmured in his morning voice.

"Really? You're sweating." Scott pointed out.

Mitch hadn't opened his eyes yet. He frowned and exhaled, then his face relaxed again, like he was going back to sleep.

"Hey you. Let's go get Starbucks." Scott touched Mitch's face, a playful jab at first, but then he stopped, his hand touching his brow. "Uhh, Mitch? You feeling okay?" He flipped his hand so the back of it could better feel the heat.

He shook his head.

"You've got a bit of a temperature. Were you feeling weird last night?" Scott was suddenly concerned, but tried to hide it. It was probably nothing.

"Yeah. A little."

"You're cold?"

A nod.

"I think you have a fever."

Finally, one brown eye opened and looked at him, the other squinted against the light on his face. The way his face was scrunched was just so adorable. "No, I'm fine. Yeah, let's go get Starbucks." But he didn't move to get up. He just lied there, his eyes closed again and his breath returning to its slow, sleepy rhythm.

Scott lied there a while, thoughtfully watching Mitch. Then, he carefully rose from the bed, untangling himself from the white and pink ombre comforter. His clothes from yesterday were rumpled from being slept in, so he padded to his own bedroom and grabbed a t-shirt and a hoodie, then stepped into some bleached jeans. He didn't bother fixing his hair, so he just raked it back and hid it underneath a backwards snapback.

The morning was bright and warm, so he bypassed the car and strolled down the sidewalk, his unlaced combat boots crunching in the first fallen leaves of the Autumn. Starbucks was just around the corner, so it wasn't long before he was in line for coffee. He ordered an iced vanilla latte and some iced black coffee, which he knew Mitch always got, then waited for the drinks.

This was routine by now. He usually felt perfectly at ease and normal, here in his usual spot at the corner booth. Except now, he couldn't keep his mind off Mitch. What if something was seriously wrong? Was he just run down from the last of the tour and had caught a bug? Or was it worse than that?

Once Scott got home, he dumped his keys and wallet on the table and walked back to Mitch's bedroom. He had to navigate around a grumpy Wyatt, who mewed in proper, annoyed Wyatt fashion and tried to tangle his body in Scott's legs. "Watch it, bitch," He warned sarcastically, then entered the room with the coffees.

Mitch was in the exact same position, sound asleep, and quietly breathing. Maybe the breaths were sounding a little ragged? Scott shook off his concern, and kicked the foot of the bed, "Hey, fucker. It's almost ten. You gonna sleep all day?"

Mitch didn't move.

Scott set the cups, slick with droplets of condensation, on the bedside table, sat on the mattress beside him, and touched Mitch's face with what he knew were icy cold hands. His playfulness dissolved when his skin was instantly warmed with his best friend's unnatural warmth. "Mitch."

Mitch turned away from Scott's hands and opened his eyes.

"Mitch, you're really sick. Are you still cold?"

"Mmm Hmm." He nodded.

"Can you sit up?"

He pulled himself up and propped his torso up on the headboard.

"Okay, take that hoodie off, and I'm gonna go get the thermometer." He left and returned with some fever reducing pills.

Mitch hadn't taken the hoodie off, and his eyes were closed again.

"Come on," Scott helped him, ignoring Mitch's complaints as he stripped the hoodie and shirt over his head, exposing sweaty skin, "Here's the thermometer. See if you have a fever. And take these pills."

"Easy, tiger," Mitch placed the end of the thermometer between his teeth, his expression one of endearment, "I'm not dying."

Scott laughed, but it was tainted by his thoughts, so it came out as a nervous, awkward one. The time it took to wait for the thermometer to register was agonizing, and Scott tried to calm that rising feeling of unease. Finally, with a beep, Scott took it out of Mitch's mouth and read the tiny screen, "One-o-two. Yeah. You have a fever. Guess you're not going anywhere today."

"Queen, I don't want to. I'm just gonna sleep all day. Eat that shit UP."

"Take the pills," Scott instructed, handing him the iced coffee and two Ibuprofen.

"Kay, Mom." He responded, taking the pills and placing them in his mouth.

Scott knew he was being sassy as an effort to calm him down. He probably noticed how concerned he was, so he ignored the comment. "I'm gonna make breakfast," He stood, "And let me know if you need to go to the doctor, cause I can set one up now if you need it."

"Nah," He pulled the blankets up over his bare chest, "I'll be fine."

"Need anything? I could go get orange juice. Uhh, chocolate? I don't know what to get for fevers so no cough drops."

Mitch regarded him with an amused half-smile. "Chill out, Scott."

Scott sat on the bed again, "Hey. Just do me a favor: let me take care of you. I'm worried."

He gave a smile and a sigh, "You could grab my laptop. If I'm staying in bed today, you can be sure as fuck that Netflix is gonna be on nonstop."

He handed him the device, which was on the nightstand, then touched Mitch's brow again. "Maybe you should take a cold bath." He suggested.

The man in the bed simply stared at him, "Fuck no, Scottie. I'd like to keep from getting hypothermia if that's okay."

His fingers began typing, so Scott abled away with plans of breakfast on his mind. Orange juice sounded good, but he'd have to leave to buy some. Waffles? They had an iron, but seldom used it. He'd have to pick some mix up too, and it was a little late in the day to start a project like that. He raided the kitchen to see what they had, and came up with a disappointing selection of cereals and microwave oatmeal. Sure, they'd work, but he wanted to do something special. Waffles it is.

So he snuck back out again and made his way over to the little grocery store around the block. He made short work of grabbing the items he needed: gluten free blueberry waffle mix, a gallon of OJ, some maple syrup, and he took some fresh strawberries on a whim. Mitch loved strawberries. He also made a pass through the pharmacy aisle and scanned for fever stuff, but came up was only a selection of ace bandages, pregnancy tests, and your regular painkillers.

The lady at the checkout annoyed him. He'd seen her be extremely rude to people, but she must have known who he was because she always turned into sunshine when he was around. He hated that she treated him better than everyone else, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Hey, Sweetheart, how's it goin'?" She beamed. An older woman, whose go-to expression was a deep frown, looked strange with a smile.

"Hey, Linda." He watched her scan his items, giving them a judgmental look as each one passed the reader.

"Where's the little guy?" She nodded to the empty space beside him, "Your boyfriend?"

He also hated that she called him that. He wasn't little. He was pretty average, standing at 5'10", several inches taller than her stooped stature.

He did a double take. Boyfriend? "Oh, Mitch and I aren't boyfriends."

She shrugged, "You do the cooking in your house?"

"Um, we share that." He felt uncomfortable; she normally didn't pry.

"What else do you share?" That one was quiet, maybe not meant for him to hear, but he did anyway.

He fumed, "Uh, Linda? Mitch and I aren't boyfriends. We're roommates."

She gave him a look, "Innit' he gay?"

He only stared at her, shocked.

"Ten seventy-three."

He paid, took his bags, and left, deeply perplexed. Is this what she'd thought of them? She'd seen them together plenty, but he never guessed that she'd come to that conclusion. How many other people thought he was Mitch's partner?

But then Scott thought deeper. Was he offended? Was it a bad thing to be seen as in a relationship with Mitch? They already joked about being married, or dating, or sleeping together, but maybe it was the fact that she seriously thought they were a thing. But didn't he himself wish they were together? Wasn't it just this morning that he thought about what it would be like to be Mitch's lover?

He was still caught on the thought when he walked into their apartment and dumped the groceries on the counter, giving a glance into the bedroom to check on Mitch. He felt a rush of fondness when he saw Mitch's head over the top of the laptop screen as he watched his show. Maybe he didn't mind the idea of them being together.

He plugged in the waffle iron and went to work fixing the batter, a small, thoughtful smile playing on his lips. Eggs, oil, and milk went in, and the aroma of fake blueberries hit his senses like a wall. Wow, it was intense. He ended up with more waffles than he meant to, but he stacked the five squares on a plate, sure that they'd get to them later. He then fixed two plates of food, artfully drizzling them with microwaved syrup and placing sliced strawberries on top. Throwing a couple whole strawberries on the side for good measure, he managed to get the food to Mitch's room without tripping over Wyatt.

Mitch looked up. "Wow, Paula Deen, look at that!"

Scott couldn't help but blush and grin like a moron.

…..

Night had fallen, bringing with it the usual calm and peace. The two of them were in bed again, Scott leaning against the headboard while Mitch's head was settled on his shoulder. They'd always been cuddly like this, but tonight it was different; Scott was filled with a kind of fierce protectiveness, and held Mitch's over-warm body close, as if his arms would keep him safe. Mitch lied alongside him, his arm around his chest and one leg over his, and thoughtfully played with the fabric of Scott's pajama shirt as he waited for the thermometer to go off.

A high pitched alarm, and Scott took it from between Mitch's teeth, "A hundred point two. Got it down some."

Mitch hummed contentedly, blinking slowly as sleepiness weighed on his eyelids. It was a pleasant kind of sleepy, and Scott's heartbeat beneath his ear lulled him into a numb, hypnotic state as Scott's arms found a place to settle around him.

My little, sleepy Mitch, Scott found himself thinking, a smile playing at his lips as he held the thin, smaller man close. His head lowered until his cheek met the top of Mitch's head, his baby fine hair soft against his skin.

"Will you sing?" Mitch mumbled, snuggling closer into his side.

"What do you want?"

A shrug, followed by a contented sigh.

"Okay, Snugglebug," He cleared his throat, then began, softly, barely murmuring the words into Mitch's hair, "I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord," He sang the first song that came to mind, letting the low pitches rumble in his chest, where he knew Mitch could hear it best, "But you don't really care for music do you?" He began to sway with the tune, rocking Mitch gently back and forth, and the words dissolved into humming.

The dark haired man's breathing slowed to an even, gentle pace, his eyes closing. Mitch's body warmed their little cocoon of blankets, and Scott was rubbing his thumb on his sleeve where his arms were clasped around him. The pitches in his chest turned to a different song, one he couldn't quite remember, but somehow his voice made the melody. It was an old thing, one that he might have learned in school, or maybe had made up, but he knew Mitch had been there. It aroused a memory of the two, being dorks together, just being young and stupid. Though it wasn't a specific memory, and was half hidden in his head somewhere, Scott smiled at the feelings it brought back.

"Mitch," he sighed contentedly, proud that he had the opportunity to share most of his life with this beautiful, sleeping creature in his arms. He placed a gentle, careful kiss on his feverish brow, maintaining the contact long enough to capture this tender moment and commit it to memory. He didn't want to let go.

xxx

 _I've been thinking about continuing this story. Let me know what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry guys. I know this was supposed to be cute, but it kinda went a dark direction._

 _Funny story: I wrote this before Pentatonix's cover of "Halelujah," so it's pure chance that Scott was singing that song in the last chapter. It was the one I was thinking of at the time._

It was morning again, and Scott pulled himself to one elbow. He stayed there a few moments, blinking himself into consciousness, and rubbed his eyes with the side of one index finger. He first noticed that he was wet. Not terribly so, just a little damp, but enough to make him puzzled. He then noticed Mitch's absence.

"Mitch?" He touched the empty plane of the bed beside him, noting that it too was damp. It wasn't water, and it didn't smell like urine. What was it? He pinched the fabric on the front of his shirt and brought it to his nose. It smelled like Mitch.

Sweat?

"Mitch?" He repeated, extricating his legs from the covers, "Where are you?" He shouldn't be worried. This happened all the time. He was probably grabbing coffee. But he wasn't well enough to leave the house, was he? When no response came, Scott's bare feet made sounds like Wyatt's did on the wood floor as he made his way into the living room. He was chilled as the air conditioning dried the moisture on his clothes, but he didn't notice. He was filled with a rising sense of concern. Was he okay?

The couches were bare, with only a few scattered objects they'd left the night before. None of the lights were on, and the house seemed eerily empty as he made his way to the kitchen. Still, there was no one. It was just as empty and quiet as the living room had been. He made his way to his own bedroom, which had been empty for a few nights now, but there was no Mitch.

Finally, he entered the bathroom, after noticing that the door was propped open on… Something. It was Mitch's knee where he sat, his arms folded and his eyes focused on something far away.

"Hey, you. Feeling okay?" He leaned against the door frame.

Mitch turned to him, his eyes taking a moment to focus on his face, "Weird. I feel lightheaded."

"What're you doing in here?"

"I was going to take a shower, but I had to sit down because I got too dizzy." He was too subdued, too quiet, his eyes closing as if calming an oncoming dizzy spell.

Scott didn't like it. "Hey. Let's get back to bed. I'll help you take a shower if you feel like you need it, but you need sleep. It's early." Then a thought occurred to him, "how long have you been awake?"

A shrug, "An hour? It was about three."

"It's six thirty. You been sitting here all that time?" Scott knelt beside him, "The floor's so cold, and you're sweating even worse." He suddenly had a rush of anxiety, and touched Mitch's brow, "Come on."

Mitch tried, but fell back on one elbow, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Uh oh.

"Here," Scott slid his arms under Mitch's knees and behind his back, then hoisted him up in his arms, "You're probably dehydrated. I'll get you some water." It was more of a hail Mary than a diagnosis. He prayed there wasn't something seriously wrong with him.

Mitch leaned his forehead into Scott's neck and clasped his hands around his shoulders, letting him carry his small, weak body back to the comfort of his bed. He didn't know why, but the way he was cradled, secure in Scott's arms, made him feel at home. Like everything was okay. The strong, broad shoulders and the taut muscles reminded him of when his dad used to carry him in from the car when he pretended to be asleep as a child. They reached the bed and Scott started to stoop to place him amid the sheets, but Mitch inhaled quickly, "No."

"What do you mean?" Scott stopped.

"I don't want you to stop. Let's just stay like this a little longer." Mitch realized that his demand may have seemed strange, but Scott sat cross legged on the bed and adjusted Mitch so he was in his lap.

"Okay, Mitchy. I'll stay as long as you need me to."

Mitch smiled as he felt the pressure of what must have been Scott's lips in his hair. It was comforting. Sweet.

But Scott was terrified. He needed to put Mitch down so he could get him hydrated, check his temp again, and call the doctor's office. He resolved to take him to the ER if this got any worse, and his head was running at top speed, thinking a million thoughts. But he didn't want to let go of Mitch's body. The way he was lying against him, fitting perfectly in his lap like a puzzle piece, and Scott didn't want to end it. Maybe just a few more moments like this? The office didn't open 'till 8 anyway.

Then something occurred to him: Mitch usually was the first to realize he needed to go to the doctor. He couldn't stand being sick and always made sure he was stocked up to the gills on antibiotics. Even if all he had was a cold, he was usually stressed about strep or the flu or bronchitis. But he hadn't said anything this time. Why the hell hadn't he said anything?

"Mitch? I need to set up a doctor's appointment. I don't know what's wrong with you."

"I'm fine." Came a quiet murmur.

"No you're not. I don't want to scare you, but I don't think you're fine."

"I think I just need to sleep more and drink something." He relaxed even more into Scott, his breathing slowing to a sleepy rhythm.

Scott instinctively touched his forehead, sensing for any hint of his temperature growing, "Hey. You need to let me call the doctor."

But he seemed to be asleep.

Scott pulled his laptop off the nightstand and balanced it on one of his crossed knees, his arms reaching around Mitch to type. " _Adult Fevers_ "

A million articles came up and he clicked the first one: "Fever in adults: know when to see a doctor"

" _Fever occurs when the body's immune response is triggered by pyrogens (fever-producing substances). Pyrogens usually come from a source outside the body and, in turn, stimulate the production of additional pyrogens inside the body…."_ Blah blah blah, he continued scrolling, his eyes scanning for something he could use, " _a temperature at which adults should seek medical care...High-grade fevers range from about 103 F-104"_

Mitch was 102 last night. Scott couldn't feel a difference with his fingers, but he wished he could grab the thermometer without moving Mitch. Just to be sure. Why the hell had he left it on the bookshelf?

Finally his conflicted feelings picked a side and he gently moved Mitch in the bed, being careful as he placed his head on the pillow. Retrieving the little device, he nudged at Mitch's shoulder, "Hey. I'm gonna take your temperature."

When no response came except an indignant groan, he gave up trying to get it in his mouth, and instead pushed his hand under the neckline of his shirt and placed the end of the thermometer under his arm. That worked right? A quick google consult affirmed it.

The alarm went off and he removed it, holding his breath as he watched the little numbers, praying and hoping and… He let the breath out in a gust.

It wasn't okay.

104.6


	3. Chapter 3

"Fuck!" Scott ran a hand through his hair, sweat suddenly standing on his skin. He dropped the thermometer, passed his eyes over Mitch's sleeping body, then scrambled for his phone. Scott's fingers were shaking as he dialed the numbers he thought he'd never have to dial, his mind going over what he knew he should say.

"This is 911, what is your emergency?" The calm, feminine voice on the other line asked.

"Hi. Um," He breathed deeply, fighting to control the fear that wanted to cut his voice off, "I need an ambulance. My friend has a fever, a hundred-four point six."

"Is your friend conscious?"

"Uh," He leaned over Mitch, shaking him firmly by the shoulder, "No. He won't wake up."

"What is your address?"

He supplied it in a shaking voice.

"Okay, someone will be there as soon as possible. Please remain calm and patient."

Xxx

Why was he moving? He was rudely pulled from his perfectly peaceful sleep by several sets of hands on his body and the rush of movement as they lifted him from the bed.

 _What the hell?_ He wished they would just let him sleep. Why wake up someone who was so tired?...

Why was this thing on his face? He couldn't really move his arm to swat the breathing mask off his nose and mouth, so he just frowned, indignant that it was there. Why all the people around him? _What the fuck was happening?_

 _One, two, three…_ He counted the faces of people he didn't know, utterly perplexed as to why they were so close to him and looming over his body.

Wait… There was a face he knew. Scott. But his face was fixed in a solemn, worried frown as he tugged a jacket on over his pajamas. Why was he frowning like that? He was so much prettier when he smiled…

"Can you tell me your name?" A man near his face was speaking to him.

So rude. _Just leave me alone. I don't owe you anything._

The man repeated the question.

"What's going on?" He murmured instead.

"You're sick. We're gonna help you get better, but you have to help me out. Can you please give me your name?"

 _I'm not sick. I was sleeping and you bugged me,_ "Mitch."

"Okay, this is gonna sting, Mitch." The man gripped his wrist and there was a dot of white-hot pain in his forearm.

 _First they woke me up and now they're sticking me with sharp things,_ Mitch figured he could just get up and stop them, but at the same time moving seemed to be a dumb idea. _Too much energy. I'm already so tired._ He closed his eyes.

Xxx

Scott had never been in the back of an ambulance before, but for the entire five minute ride, he wasn't bothering to look around and take it in. He was focusing on the closed eyes of his best friend and trying to ignore the sirens. Mitch's sweaty hand was limp in his as he squeezed it for support and watched those men loosen his clothes and hook him up to machines. One of them was placing little stickers on Mitch's ribcage and attaching them to wires.

"What's wrong with him?" Scott gave Mitch's hand an involuntary squeeze, then wondered if he should stop before he crushed it in his tense grip.

"Fevers sometimes mean infection. Has he been around anyone with the flu? He might have caught a nasty one."

Scott shook his head, "I don't know. I don't think so." Mitch looked so innocent. So peaceful and quiet as he gently breathed little fog-blasts into the mask through his pretty nose. He shouldn't be so sick. He shouldn't ever be this sweaty. His chest was shiny and slick and the paramedic had to dry off his skin before he placed each sticker. It made Scott's stomach turn with anxiety.

Xxx

When he opened his eyes again the ceiling was too bright. _Fuck off, light._ White ceilings. White lights flashing past. Too much white. Vertigo of motion. _More assholes that were messing up his sleep._ Yelling. Words he didn't understand. Hands touching his body. Elastic over his ears from the breathing mask. Eyes that wouldn't focus right and seemed to only be capable of staring straight ahead. The weird sensation of being covered in sweat and freezing cold at the same time. _This is bullshit._

"Can you tell me your name?" A woman in a blue hat-thingy that covered her hair was frowning down at him. Everyone was frowning. _Why does everyone want my name?_

Scott was nowhere to be seen, and Mitch found himself searching each of the faces around him. Ahh, so his eyes did work. _Where are you?_ He felt the familiar surge of panic that sometimes happened when his anxiety flared up and he couldn't find Scott's face in the crowd. He was gone. _He should be here. Where is that son of a bitch?_ "Scott?"

"Scott. Okay, Scott. We're taking you upstairs. Hang on."

 _No._ MY _name's not Scott, stupid. Where is he? "_ Where's Scott?" He managed in a voice that was maybe too tiny to hear, and was muffled by this _damn mask._

"BP's rising." One of the other women ( _Nurses, I guess?)_ quipped in an authoritative voice.

"Calm down, honey. You'll be alright, Scott."

 _I'm not Scott._ He almost groaned in frustration. _These people are so stupid._ But it was getting harder to search for him. He was starting to get very sleepy again, his eyelids drooping as they got heavier. When his eyes closed completely, he was left with one name that kept bouncing around in his head: _Scott?_


	4. Chapter 4

Mitch awoke, much like one does with a hangover. Slowly. Sluggishly. Painfully. He didn't know why it hurt so much or why it was so difficult to open his eyes, nor why his mouth felt so bone-dry, but he fought between the murk of unconsciousness and the pale blue light at the front of his eyelids until finally, the tug of sleep released him.

 _Fuck, that was a bad idea._ It felt like the wine hangover from hell. Only he didn't remember drinking… He frowned into the light, immediately regretting his decision. Now he felt the pain in earnest, throbbing at the back of his skull. The dryness in his mouth was painful, as though each taste bud was withered and the back of his throat was sandpaper. Or maybe his mouth was just full of cotton balls, sapping the moisture from his tongue. His field of vision was filled with that same pale blue and didn't seem to be clearing. _This is bullshit._ He almost groaned in frustration. Almost. Instead, a gust of air escaped his nose, and his deep inhale was filled with the sharp, almost sour smell of chemicals and hand sanitizer.

 _Where am I?_ His blurred mind struggled to remember what had happened, but he drew a blank. _Scott was there, singing to me,_ He recalled, _And I was taking a lazy day… Did we drink?_ He wondered if this was what it was like to be high: disoriented and confused. _But where AM I?_

He blinked once, twice, and he felt two tears slide down his temples. He now noticed that his eyes felt goopy, sticky, overly clouded with a viscous liquid. _Funny._ It was as though his eyes had hogged all the moisture that should be in his mouth. A little of the haze went away as he blinked, and finally images began to blur into focus. An unfamiliar ceiling stretched above him, a plane of dimpled drop-ceiling and fluorescent lights. There was a blue curtain hanging limply from the ceiling, the fabric resembling the loud print on one of those shirts Scott used to wear. And everything was generally blue. Blue ceiling. Blue walls. Blue curtain. Blue blankets… _Whose blankets are these?_ As his gaze fell downward onto his body, where his feet almost touched the footboard of whatever bed he was lying on, an even deeper sense of confusion filled him. Could they have gotten drunk at a friend's house, and this was someone's bedroom? That couldn't be. He didn't remember _anything._ Not unless someone drugged him.

He was forced to come to the conclusion that he dreaded: this was a hospital. It smelled like it. It looked like it. He just really didn't like that possibility, because that meant something was wrong with him. Something that he couldn't remember. _Did I hit my head somehow?_ That would explain the pain that throbbed in his… _Fuck. Ow!_

Mitch's eyes fell to his arm and yes, his suspicion was confirmed. An IV needle entered his skin, the tube secured with plenty of clear gauze tape that he knew would hurt like hell to take off, since those nurses had been so considerate to stick him where his arm hair was thick. Yes, that was where one of his largest veins lay, but _why did those damn people stick me there?_

Suddenly he was aware of all the foreign objects connected to him: a blood pressure cuff around his upper bicep, a clampy-thing on his index finger, a bazillion little wires that exited the neckline of his ugly-ass hospital gown. And _Whoa,_ Those inflating leg things that regulate your circulation. One arm, his right one, because his left was held prisoner by all those doohickeys ( _the bastards),_ raised to touch the skinny air tube under his nose. He thought better of removing it though, and instead his fingers traced the path from his nose, around his ear, and under his chin.

His eyes caught on the tag that encircled his right wrist, replacing the metal bracelet he usually wore there. In bold letters it read NAME: GRASSI, MITCHELL CM, DOB: 7/24/92, followed by a bunch of jumbled numbers and a bar code. It reminded him of the tags at the grocery store, but he guessed that's what he was in this place: an object. A tag. A bar code and a birth date and a name.

His eyes went to the curtain, which was half drawn, and realized that it was separating him from another bed. Another bed that wasn't empty. Mitch wasn't alone. He suddenly felt awkward at sleeping in the same room as a stranger, and he watched the legs under the covers, waiting for any sign of movement. Who was it? It could really be anyone. The legs were still, bent at the knees, and he could hear no sign of the person's presence. No sounds of shifting amid the blankets. No turning of magazine pages or the click of laptop keys.

"Hello?" He tried, but his dry, dry mouth made it come out like a whisper. _Ew._ Mitch cleared his throat and swallowed, forcing some liquid to move in his mouth and saturate his sandpaper-tongue, and tried again, "Hello?" _Better._

There was no response. No movement.

Mitch fell back on the pillow, defeated, and considered getting up to pull the curtain aside. Something in him hated not being able to see who shared his room. But he knew that he was imprisoned, tethered to this bed by wires and tubes, so he refrained. Instead he lied there, his mind fabricating a picture of some large man. _Maybe he has a moustache. Or a crazy scar on his cheek._ He amused himself, and, despite the discomfort and throbbing pain in his head, a smile grew on his face. The person seemed very tall, with long legs that didn't quite fit in the bed, so he assumed it was a man. Maybe he was a marine. Maybe a teacher. Mitch found himself cycling through professions based on the pair of legs under the covers. The only reason he knew the man was caucasian was because his hand was visible behind the curtain, the fingers curled loosely and the wrist bearing a hospital tag like Mitch's. Mitch squinted at the nametag, cursing his goopy eyes and bad eyesight.

But then he saw the tattoo.

A tiny line drawing of the state of Texas.

 _Oh God._ "Scott?" He tried in a small voice. _What the fuck is he doing here?_

There was only silence and the slight drifting of the curtain in the air conditioning.


	5. Chapter 5

Scott didn't know why he was sweating, but he used the bottom hem of his shirt to sponge it off of his face and pulled his phone out of his pajama pocket. He felt impossibly lost and afraid without Mitch home, so Scott did the only thing he knew to do: he called everyone he could think of. Mike and Nel, after acting appropriately concerned, had insisted he keep them updated in case they had to make the drive from Arlington. He suspected they were already packing their bags.

Each call he made left him feeling more and more empty as each voice turned worried. Then, at about nine AM, someone called _him,_ her voice taut with concern. Nick.

"Hi, Nicky," he answered, crossing his arms and trying not to look at the bathroom door where he'd found Mitch, sweating and vacant.

"What's going on? Vincent said something about Mitch. Is he okay?"

"Well," he inhaled, realizing that he could've caused a panic, the news rippling through their circle of friends like wildfire. It had hardly taken any time at all to reach Nicole, even though he hadn't thought to call her yet, "I don't think so. He got really, really sick last night."

"What do you mean, you don't think so? Where is he?"

"He's, uh. He's at the hospital right now. Ambulance came in at about six thirty this morning. I don't know what's wrong with Mitch, but he had a crazy fever." He felt his voice rising, so he fought to calm his tone, "I'll let you know what's going on."

"No-wait, Scott! Do you need me to come over? I'm in town. Are you home?"

Scott rubbed his eyes, the early morning getting to him and making him dizzy with drowsiness, "No, it's fine. I'm gonna try going back to the hospital and see if he's okay."

"Since six thirty? Jesus, and you still don't know if he's okay?"

His heart rate felt on the fast side, "Well, at least they haven't called to say he's dead," he muttered without thinking, partially to calm himself, but he didn't think of Nick's reaction.

"Fuck! Did you say 'at least he's not _dead!?'_ How bad _was_ it?" She sounded simultaneously angry and confused, much different from the Nicky he knew, "I'm coming over."

"No, don't worry about it. I just need to…" he faded off, suddenly much too dizzy. What was going on? The anxiety inside him seemed to ramp up to a dull roar in his head as he leaned to support himself against the wall.

Nick sharply inhaled, hearing the thud of his weight hitting the wall, "Hey? Are you okay?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I think so," He began to breathe heavily, "Just got dizzy all the sudden."

Then all Nick heard in the speaker was a loud crash and the clatter of his phone shattering on the floor.

"Scott? _Scott!_?"

He didn't respond.

She grabbed her purse, already running to her car.

xxx

"Scott!" She let herself into Mitch and Scott's place and threw the door open, her red hair flying loose behind her like a banner as her flip-flops slapped urgently in time to her pace. She called his name again, the fear inside her rising as she was greeted only with silence. The lights were on, so he had to be somewhere in the house. She half expected him to come in from the patio.

"Scott!" Still nothing, but when she turned the corner into the living room, there was a familiar pair of legs, partially visible from the hall, "Oh my God!" She ran to his side and fell to her knees.

He was lying, face down, with his head turned to one side and one hand up near his face. He was bleeding, a gash on his forehead trickling onto the floor, and there was broken glass scattered on the wood. Apparently he'd knocked their platinum album for 'That's Christmas To Me' off the wall, sending shards everywhere. The platinum disc was broken cleanly in half.

She didn't even notice the glass pricking her knees when she knelt, and she brushed some tiny pieces out of his hair, not caring if they cut her hands. Pulling him over onto his back and settling his head in her lap, she shook his shoulders firmly. He was unconscious, and his face and neck were covered with a thin sheen of sweat, his skin sticky when she cupped his jaw in her hand. It was soaking into his hair, darkening the roots, and now Nick could see that the corner of the coffee table had blood on it. Scott must've clipped his forehead on the way down. Now, holding him in her arms like this, his blood was running into his hair.

"Oh my God," She used her sleeve to try and mop some of it up. She forgot that head wounds bled so much, "Scott! Wake up!"

But he remained quiet and limp and so scarily unconscious in her arms. She had no clue what had happened. Had he gotten knocked out when his head connected with the corner of the coffee table? He'd fallen for some reason, and he'd said he was dizzy.

Why did he seem so sick? _Crazy fever,_ He'd said. Could he have the same thing Mitch had? His shirt had begun to darken with sweat and his breaths were ragged and strained. She placed two fingers against his neck, depressing the skin where she knew a major artery was. His heartbeat was much too fast, and his skin was over-warm. Nick felt so utterly helpless. She didn't know what to do, and she was so terrified, the blood rushing in her ears. She'd already called 911 on the way here, so all she could do was wait.

He was much too hot against her as she clutched him closer and took his hand in hers, "Please Scott! _Please_ be okay."

Xxx

At long last, a nurse entered the room, "Hi there," she seemed surprised, "You're awake."

"What's wrong with Scott?" Mitch struggled to sit up, "Why is he here?"

"Hey, it's okay," She reached the bed and gently pushed his shoulder back against the pillow, "You're both sick. He came in a few hours after you did."

Mitch let her push him back down. Sitting up had been a bad idea. Suddenly the pain in his head had increased tenfold, throbbing in his temples with a fiery vengeance and bringing tears to his eyes, "Why won't he answer me?"

The woman was kind, her brown eyes sweet and her face warming with a sympathetic smile, "He's asleep. He needs to rest, and you should too. You've both been through hell."

"I don't even remember it." He frowned, searching his memory but finding only blackness. He had too many questions, and the agony in head was starting to feel like his skull was splitting open.

"You okay, Mitch?" She pulled something out of her scrub pocket.

"Hurts," he managed, closing his eyes.

"What hurts, hon?"

"My head."

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Uh," Mitch frowned, "seven? I don't know. It's bad."

"You were severely dehydrated. That could have something to do with it."

He couldn't keep his eyes off that curtain. It physically hurt him to not be able to see Scott. To know he was there, sleeping in that bed, breathing quietly, yet he was shielded from Mitch's view by that damn dangling piece of fabric, "Can I see him?"

The nurse smiled, her crow's feet crinkling, "Let me check some things first," She leaned closer and held a tiny flashlight close to his face, "Watch my nose," She instructed, flashing the little light in his peripheral vision and frowning into his eyes.

Mitch knew it had something to do with if his pupils constricted or not, but he couldn't help but think this was a waste of time. He just wanted to know if Scott was okay.

"Everything looks good," she smiled, "You have pretty eyes, hon."

"Thanks," he hated the way she acted as though nothing was wrong, "Please can I see Scott? I have to know if he's okay."

"Of course you can." Finally, the woman put a hand on the curtain, "Just don't be worried. He hurt his head somehow and he's more sick than you were, so it won't be pretty. You sure you want to see?"

He frowned at her reluctance, and nodded. Why did she seem so hesitant?

But then she pulled the curtain aside, and Mitch could see Scott, lying still and quiet and…

His throat closed and he covered his mouth, not even caring if he pulled loose some of the wires on his arm, "Oh my God."

Most of Scott's face was obscured by a transparent plastic breathing mask, the kind that covers your nose and mouth. The left side of his forehead was marked with a mottled line that was held shut with butterfly bandages and surrounded by bruising skin. Some of the bruise had extended to the corner of his eye and the delicate skin underneath it, ringing it with a dark black-green half-moon shape. Little red marks, like cuts, were scattered across his face and arms.

"What the hell is wrong with him?"

"He passed out at home yesterday morning," The older nurse responded, "A friend found him and called 911. Apparently he'd broken something and little glass pieces were all over him."

"What's wrong with his head?" He pulled himself into a half-sitting position, ignoring the pain that made his skull throb.

"Not sure. Probably the fall. He was standing when he passed out, and that's a long way down."

Mitch pushed at the goopy tears in his eyes, frustrated that they hindered his vision. He only wanted to see clearly and to get out of this fucking bed. And for the pain to stop. He felt so confused, so useless, trapped on this mattress. The wires and tubes might as well be shackles, binding him down, and he hated it.

"So the plan is, we'll keep you here for observation 'til noon-ish, then if everything looks good, you'll be discharged."

Maybe she said that in an effort to calm him down, but he hardly heard her. He hardly even noticed what she looked like because he was stuck in his own head. Stuck with his pain and his terror and his anxiety.

"Calm down, hun. Your BP is rising."

 _I can't. Scotty's not okay._ He shook his head and fell back onto his pillow, more tears fogging up his line of sight even more and the pain making it harder to keep his eyes open, "Why does my head hurt so much?"

"It's okay, Mitch. I'll see if I can get you some pain meds, and everything'll be fine."

She was a liar. Nothing was fine. Scott was hurt. His head hurt. His body hurt _so badly._


End file.
